


Built to Last

by roseclaw



Category: Bandom
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-13
Updated: 2010-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-10 13:10:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseclaw/pseuds/roseclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bob is sent out to Central America to retrieve an archeological artifact. Unfortunately, he isn't the only one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Built to Last

**Author's Note:**

> Modern Day Indiana Jones AU! And has about as much mythological and historical accuracy. This was inspired by [](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/profile)[**hc_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/) and even though it was supposed to be for my "fear of heights" square, it encompasses about six of my squares. This is actually for my [fever/delirium](http://autonomyanatomy.livejournal.com/26806.html) square. Beta by [](http://saekokato.livejournal.com/profile)[**saekokato**](http://saekokato.livejournal.com/), because she's fabulous.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[bandom](http://autonomyanatomy.livejournal.com/tag/bandom), [bob is more awesome than you](http://autonomyanatomy.livejournal.com/tag/bob%20is%20more%20awesome%20than%20you), [brian is my captain awesome](http://autonomyanatomy.livejournal.com/tag/brian%20is%20my%20captain%20awesome), [fic](http://autonomyanatomy.livejournal.com/tag/fic), [h/c bingo](http://autonomyanatomy.livejournal.com/tag/h/c%20bingo), [rating: pg-13](http://autonomyanatomy.livejournal.com/tag/rating:%20pg-13), [slash](http://autonomyanatomy.livejournal.com/tag/slash)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Fandom:** Bandom (Bob Bryar, Brian Schechter, and Greta Salpeter)  
**Pairing:** Bob/Brian  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Word Count:** 6,871  
**Spoilers:** n/a  
**Warnings:** graphic descriptions of broken bones and bone setting by someone with no medical experience  
**Author's Note:** Modern Day Indiana Jones AU! And has about as much mythological and historical accuracy. This was inspired by [](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/profile)[**hc_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/) and even though it was supposed to be for my "fear of heights" square, it encompasses about six of my squares. This is actually for my [fever/delirium](http://autonomyanatomy.livejournal.com/26806.html) square. Beta by [](http://saekokato.livejournal.com/profile)[**saekokato**](http://saekokato.livejournal.com/), because she's fabulous.  
**Disclaimer:** Everyone here belongs to themselves.  
**Summary:** Bob is sent out to Central America to retrieve an archeological artifact. Unfortunately, he isn't the only one.

**Built to Last**

  
Brian gives Bob a haughty look over Mayan head of jade and gold. The head is rumored to bring bad luck to anyone who possesses it, which is why it's been hidden away in a cave deep in the jungle. Bob doesn't care about superstitions. The head is small, and it can easily fit in Bob's palm, but it's worth more than a million to Bob's boss and will be the star of a Smithsonian exhibit. Brian is the fly in the ointment.

Bob is glad that Brian is the only fly in the ointment. The head is exactly where it is claimed to be, no ancient treasure hunter stole it, no earthquake or volcano buried it. The head is sitting prettily in a corner of the cave, waiting for Bob to come along and take it.

"Don't you fucking dare, Schechter," Bob growls.

"It's you or me, Bryar," Brian says.

"I'd prefer it to be me," Bob says. "You do realize it's booby trapped."

"It always is," Brian says. "But that head belongs to my employer."

"That's not what my employer says," Bob shoots back.

"It's what your Mom says," Brian snaps.

Brian's run through his usual repertoire and has ended up reverting to a twelve-year-old. Bob pauses before he says, "My mother has higher standards. And we have about thirty seconds before the rampart gives."

"Aw," Brian says. "You do care."

"Fuck you," Bob says.

Brian gives him another haughty look and momentarily blinds Bob with his headlamp. In that time, Brian snags the head, pocketing it easily and giving himself enough time to duck as a spear shoots from the wall.

Bob ducks a second too late, and the spear grazes his shoulder.

"Fuck," he hisses, quickly examining the wound. It's nothing major. It just ripped his shirt and the top layer of skin. No blood.

When Bob looks up, Brian's gone. Bob can also feel the rampart trembling under his feet. Brian swiping the head must have exacerbated the instability of the earth under Bob's feet. He thinks he might be a bit too old to continue this lifestyle.

He runs out of the cave, racing against the sinking soil and stone. The only one here to rescue him would be Brian, and that's not going to happen anytime soon.

Bob catches a glimpse of Brian's white shirt as he disappears into the jungle, and Bob braces himself as the cool, damp air of the cave gives way to the hot, damp air of the jungle.

The cave collapses fully behind Bob. He quickly grabs his backpack, hanging where he left it from a strangler fig, and he races as far away from the sinking ground as he can.

"Fuck," he says under his ragged breath. They're in the middle of the Guatemalan jungle, and there's no way that Bob can track Brain, not with the onset of dusk. Night comes quickly in the jungle.

Bob digs out his compass from his pack. Brain had headed west up into the mountains. The nearest settlement is five miles east, and Bob can't reach that by nightfall.

The dust settles, and Bob catches his breath.

A crack of thunder startles him just as he has his heartbeat under control again. Fuck. It's going to rain soon. Bob needs to find some shelter – or create it – before the storm hits. A storm at night is not the best time to be off in the jungle. He momentarily thinks of Brian, racing off into the jungle with the prize that should have been Bob's. Bob won't be able to track him after the rains, either.

At this point defeat would be a better option than death. Even if that defeat deals a severe blow to Bob's integrity, it's still better than death. His boss will be unhappy not to have the head, but she won't blame Bob. Too much.

Bob walks another hundred feet from the sinkhole the collapsed cave created. He grabs a fallen branch and brushes away all the fallen leaves and twigs until there's only a patch of bare soil left.

He has enough time to set up his tiny pop-up tent – it's so tiny that Bob needs to sleep curled up in order to fit – and cover it with a tarp before the sky opens.

Bob curses the rainy season and hopes there's still soil under him when he wakes up in the morning.

_   
**Bandom: Built to Last**   
_

~

  
In the morning, Bob rolls up his tent and shoves it into its place in his backpack. He hopes he'll have enough time to make it out of the highland rainforest and into the lowland dry forest before his tent grows mold and rots away.

Before he heads downhill, he takes one last look uphill in case he might catch a glimpse of Brian or his trail. Bob knows he won't, but he still looks anyway.

All he sees is jungle.

There are fresh aguti tracks across Bob's campsite, and that's the only sign of mammalian life.

Bob shoulders his pack and heads downhill. He follows the furrows made by the torrential rains the night before. The ground is still saturated and sucks at Bob's boots.

He makes it a mile down the mountain when he catches sight of a red bandana stuck on the buttress of a tree. It looks identical to the one Brian had been wearing earlier. Bob picks it up carefully, curious as to what the hell a red bandana would be doing in the middle of the jungle. He doubts Brian would have put it there as he took a break. Brian's not careless enough to leave any signs of his presence after he leaves. That includes red bandanas and trails to track him by.

Bob looks back uphill. Brian might be up there and in trouble. Or he could already be on a plane back to the States. Bob only has four more miles until he reaches a town, and he could really use a bath. He smells rank, and he's covered in several layers of sweat and mud. His hair is matted with sweat under his hat.

Brian could be in trouble, or he could be fucking with Bob.

Bob sighs to himself.

He heads back uphill. It's not like Bob is entirely without conscious.

~

  
Bob finds his way back to the collapsed cave without difficulty. He then takes out his compass and follows it west – the last direction he saw Brain heading.

As Bob had suspected, the jungle had purged itself of human presence. There's no sign of Brian or a trail he could have taken. Not even a snapped twig or muddy boot imprint. Brian knows how to cover his tracks, and the jungle took care of the rest with the storm the night before.

Bob shakes his head. He doesn't know why he's even bothered. There's no way he can track Brian, especially when Brian doesn't want to be followed. There's good reason for it. Bob will take that damn head from him and give it to his boss. At least he'll make sure Brian isn't dead or stranded.

Bob's mouth forms a thin, grim line.

This was a waste of his time.

He makes it about quarter of a mile downhill again when his radio crackles.

Bob freezes. He leaves his radio on at all times, because. He doesn't even remember why. He thinks his boss put it somewhere in his contract. It makes spontaneity easier, especially when Bob needs a quick airlift out of some inhospitable place. Like that freak sandstorm in Morocco three years ago. When Brian lost for once. The piece Bob lifted brought in a 100k to the college Bob works for. It also insured that Bob had tenure.

The radio crackles again.

Bob shouldn't be in radio distance with anyone. And it's a small probability that someone is on the same frequency as Bob.

"... fucked up," comes across the radio.

Damn. It's Brian.

Bob pulls his radio out of the side pocket of his pack and presses the talk button. "That you, Schechter?"

The radio bleeps at him.

"Fuck, Bryar," Brian says. His breath sounds labored. "Where the fuck are you?"

"At the site," Bob says.

Brian's breath didn't sound just labored. It sounded like Brian was in pain. A lot of pain.

"Fuck," Brain says. He sounds like hell. His voice is gravely, like he had been gargling glass.

"You said that," Bob says dryly, but Brian hasn't depressed the talk button on his end, so it doesn't go through.

"Rubber," Brian says. "The biggest one. Two – three thousand meters uphill."

"What?" Bob asks.

"That's where I am," Brian says.

"Fuck," Bob says, but he doesn't say it through the radio. Brian's asking for help. For Bob's help. He sounds like he's in really bad shape. Bob hopes it's not a fer-de-lance bite. Brian will never make it. He won't make it if it were any other pit viper, either.

Brain may be a rival, but he's not an enemy.

Bob clutches the radio and races uphill. He counts each stride as he goes. Each step is a meter.

At two thousand, Bob begins to scour the jungle for a large rubber tree.

It doesn't take long before he finds the meandering buttresses that lead him to the cathedral of an ancient rubber tree. Its branches sent roots down years ago, and it forms a protective circle around Brian, who's curled in on himself. He's covered in mud, leaves, and twigs, and he's soaking wet. He probably didn't have time to create a shelter from the rains.

"Fuck," Bob hisses, and races over to Brian, throwing his pack aside.

Bob pulls Brian into as straight a pose as he can manage. Brian hasn't recognized that Bob is there let alone manipulating his body.

Bob frames Brian's face with his hands. Brian's eyes are cloudy, and his pupils are pinpricks. He doesn't see Bob. Or acknowledge him.

Bob quickly assesses Brian's clothing. He doesn't see any tears or broken fabric, but to be completely sure, Bob races his hands up and down Brian's arms and legs, hoping to garner some reaction from Brian.

When Bob wraps a hand around the top of Brian's left boot, Brian cries out and lashes out.

He catches Bob across the nose, but it's not hard enough to draw blood. It is a hard enough blow that Bob has that weird, hollow painful feeling that comes with a smack to the nose.

With a quick shake of his head, Bob focuses everything on Brian's left foot. He lifts up Brian's pant leg and pushes down his sock.

Right above the boot is a giant welt. It's an angry black.

Bob frowns. Most new bruises are blue. He leans in closer to inspect the bruise. In the center of the welt is red with a white center. At first Bob thinks it's an infection, but no. It's not rounded.

Bob pulls away from Brian in a rush, feeling unbelievably dizzy.

It's bone.

Brian's fucking fibula is poking out of his skin.

Bob takes a deep gulp of air and tries to clear the black specks swarming at the edge of his vision.

At least it isn't a snake bite.

After several more gulps of air, Bob gives his attention back to Brian's left leg.

He pulls Brian's boot off slowly, barely pausing to unlace it. He rolls Brian's pant leg up to just under his knee, and he pulls Brian's sock down past Brian's ankle.

"Bryar?" Brian asks. He sounds like he just woke up. His voice is rough and confused.

"Yeah," Bob says. "Shut up so I can do this." If Bob stops to think about what he needs to do to help Brian, he'll never do it.

"Yes'um," Brian mumbles. His head lolls to the right, softly hitting a buttress.

"I'm not your mother," Bob grumbles, but there's really no point in arguing.

He reaches for his pack and yanks out his tent stakes and a coil of thin rope. He doesn't have any antiseptic to wash the wound out, but it's about five and a half miles – maybe six – downhill to the nearest town. Brian can have his antiseptic by nightfall. Bob does have a flask of rum, though. That should take care of any primary infection. He had been saving it for his victory, but he has no victory, and Brian is not doing well. Or even close to well.

"This is going to hurt like fuck," Bob says as he digs for the flask in his pack.

"Mhn," Brian says. He tries to wave Bob off, but he barely has the energy to do so.

Bob pours half the rum over Brian's wound, and Brian screams, loud and clear. It startles a flock of parrots, which triggers howler monkeys that hoot deafeningly above them.

Bob doesn't want Brian screaming. It would attract unwanted attention. He also doesn't want Brian biting his tongue off. Bob finds a large stick and places it horizontally in Brian's mouth.

"Bite," Bob orders.

Brian doesn't so much obey as he does shut his mouth.

Bob takes a quick pull of the rum before he puts the flask aside. He bites his lip as he places his hands on Brian's lower leg, his palms cupping the curve of Brian's calf. Bob has to close his eyes as he presses his palms together. He can feel the bone moving under Brian's skin. It's not a clean break, and Brian's going to need a fuckton of work done to fix everything, including the work Bob's doing. Bob doesn't have a damn clue as to what he's doing.

He ignores the sounds coming from Brian's mouth and Brian's leg. He doesn't want to think about that. He needs to focus on his task.

Once the bone is more or less in the place it should be, Bob pulls Brian's sock back up, sticking the tent stakes in either side of that sock. Bob then ties the rope around the stakes and Brian's leg. It's one of the most pisspoor and rudimentary splints Bob's ever seen, but it only needs to last a few hours.

He then puts Brian's boot back on to provide further support for the tent stakes.

He looks up to Brian's face.

Brian has bitten through the stick and cut up the sides of his mouth.

"Bryar," Brian wheezes. "Fuck."

"We've covered that," Bob says. He passes Brian the flask, hoping Brian has the state of mind to down the rum.

Bob digs through his pack until he finds a bottle of aspirin. He doesn't even bother to check the dosage. He dumps out a few – four – and passes them to Brian.

Brian seems more or less lucid, and he takes the pills, downing them with a swig of rum.

"We need to head out," Bob says. "That splint isn't going to last long. How coherent are you?" He hands Brian back his bandana, which Brian gingerly wraps around his head.

"It's better when I don't think about the pain," Brian says through gritted teeth.

Bob nods. He shoulders his pack and helps Brian onto his right foot. Brian doesn't need to be asked to throw an arm over Bob's shoulders. It's a bit of a reach when height differences are taken into account, but at this point Brian doesn't exactly have options.

"My pack," Brian says. He points to a brown lump of sticks and leather.

Bob sighs, but they hobble over and Brain holds it out for Bob to take.

Bob does so reluctantly. He shoulders Brian's bag, and they head back down the hill.

~

  
Brian drifts in and out of consciousness as the day wears on. It is slow going, but most of it is downhill, and gravity does most of the work.

Except the sky is darkening, and they should have been out of the jungle hours ago. Even going as slowly as they have been.

"Bryar," Brian says. "Bob. Aren't we supposed to be back?"

"Yeah," Bob says absently. He helps Brain sit on a fallen tree trunk. "Let's see if I can get a GPS reading."

Bob takes the GPS out of his back and starts it up. Nothing happens.

Bob frowns and starts it up again.

The readings on the screen blip in and then out and then back in again.

"You won't get a reading," Brian says.

Bob looks up from his GPS to glare at Brian.

"The canopy is too thick," Brain explains. "Unless you want to scale a tree for a couple hundred feet, there's no way your GPS will give you a reading."

"Fuck," Bob says succinctly. He shoves his GPS back in his pack.

"You managed to get us lost," Brian accuses.

"I didn't hear you give any offers of directions," Bob shoots back.

"Maybe you should have asked," Brian responds primly, setting his jaw.

"Maybe I should have left your ass up at the top of the mountain to die," Bob snaps, even though both of them know he doesn't mean it. He's just frustrated. And hot and sweaty. He thought he had been headed in the right direction. Down isn't that complicated. He regrets rejecting his boss's offer of a crew for the dig. A crew would mean no one would be in this situation. But it had been so simple of a snag and bag that Bob had been too confident of his skills. He's not going to do that ever again.

Brian hmphs lightly. Bob pretends not to notice when Brian lifts his pant leg to take a look at his injury.

"I'm going to set up camp," Bob announces. There's no way they're going to make it out of the jungle once the sun goes down, and Brian really needs to remove his wet clothing before he causes more problems caused by his own stupidity.

Brian hmphs again.

Bob ignores him and sets up camp. His tent is still sopping, but it goes up easily. Bob stakes down opposite corners and hopes they don't need to use the two stakes in Brian's sock.

Brian eyes the tent warily. "There's no way we're both going to fit in there."

Bob rolls his eyes. "You're not sleeping out in the elements with wet clothing."

"And neither are you," Brian says stubbornly. Bob doubts he realizes what he's saying. In fact, Bob catches the change in expression the moment Brian does realize what he's saying. "At least I'm small," Brian says wryly.

Bob lets himself smile, just an upturn of the corners of his mouth. Brian's not as injured as he could be. And that's good. Maybe Bob can take the Mayan head from Brian and he won't even notice until they're out of the jungle and have gone their separate ways. Bob would feel guiltier about it if Brian were life-threateningly injured.

"In the tent," Bob orders. "And clothes off."

"Why, Bryar," Brian simpers. "I never knew."

"Or you can take your clothes off out here and have you ass chewed off by mosquitoes," Bob says impassively. "But either way, your wet clothing is coming off so it can dry. But leave your left sock and shoe on so the splint stays."

Brian grumbles, but he hobbles into the tent with minimal cursing and minimal support from Bob.

Bob watches Brian carefully as he undresses, and then he takes Brian's clothes and suspends then from the ceiling of the tent. Bob knows he's going to end up with a face full of Brian's filthy boxers in the morning, but that's a small price to pay.

"You finally have me naked, Bryar," Brian says. It's more like he's teasing. Brian's calling from inside the tent as Bob collects all of their stuff. "Now what are you going to do with me?"

Bob shoves everything into the tent alongside Brian, careful not to jar his foot. Bob slides in alongside Brian as well, closing the tent behind him.

"I'm going to feed you," Bob announces. "And possibly, if you're really lucky, give you some water."

"That's a bit kinky," Brian says.

"I could keep my food if you don't want it," Bob threatens.

Brian makes very incessant grabby-hands.

"My God," Bob marvels. "You turn into a fucking five-year-old when you'll hurt."

"I have a booboo," Brian whines. "Kiss it and make it better."

Bob snorts out a laugh. He gives Brian a protein bar.

~

  
When Brian wakes up in the morning, he forgets that he has a broken leg. He wakes Bob up with a muffled scream.

"Jesus," Bob says, jolting upright. He ends up with a face full of Brian's pants, which is better than his boxers.

When Bob realizes that Brian's only an idiot and not being murdered, he lies back down. Bob knows Brian has a high pain tolerance. There are tattoos all over his body that indicate that, so Brian must be in a great deal of pain.

"Bryar," Brian hisses. He pokes Bob in the ribs.

Bob grunts.

"Bob," Brian says with an accompanying poke.

"What?" Bob mumbles.

"I need to piss," Brian whispers.

"So?" Bob says.

"So I can't fucking walk, asshole," Brian growls.

"Put your clothes back on, and I'll walk you out," Bob says. "I'll even give you some painkillers first."

~

  
Once Bob has packed up, they continue downhill. They're bound to hit a village or town or something soon. If not, Bob hopes they're heading east or west so they end up at an ocean... sometime in the next month. They're bound to hit a town first. He can't really tell the position of the sun in the morning. Just that it's light.

Brian's slowing down. Bob hasn't pressured Brian into admitting that they need to rest more often; Bob just announces when they're taking a break and when they're starting up again. But it's all dependent on Brian.

Bob wants to take another look at the cut to make sure there's no infection or something equally as nasty, like a botfly larva taking up residence under Brian's skin. But Brian refuses to let Bob anywhere near his leg.

When the sun sets, Bob's finally lost patience with Brian's stupidass bravado. The flock of mosquitoes that hum around their heads has thinned Bob's patience enough. After he pitches the tent, he corners Brian in it, which isn't exactly a difficult thing to do. Bob examines the cut under the light of his headlamp. It looks black and red and puffy and angry. Bob also takes note of the tiny red tail leading away from the cut and up Brian's leg. It's small now, but Bob doubts it will take much time for the infection to spread to Brian's heart or brain.

They're going to need to leave before the sun rises, and Bob really hopes that Brian will fight the infection as hard as he fights Bob.

~

  
After Bob has cleaned up their site, he boils water – under the pretense of it being for the last bit of instant coffee – over a pathetically tiny camp stove. Bob's just grateful he's paranoid enough to bring camping gear with him. Brian doesn't even attempt to hobble around anymore. He sulks – well, he broods, but Bob's known Brian long enough to know that Brian's really sulking despite all pretences.

"Leg out," Bob orders.

Brian's sulk turns into a glare.

"Leg out," Bob repeats when Brian doesn't budge.

Brian huffs out a sigh and puts his leg out, propping it up on a tree stump.

In a fluid motion, Bob pulls up Brian's pant leg and pours the boiling water on the wound before Brian has time to shout and pull back his leg.

Brian pants hard and releases a startled yelp.

"Bastard!" Brian grits out.

"If you'd rather have gangrene," Bob says with a raise of his eyebrows.

Brian glares at him and breathes rapidly through his teeth. The air hisses as he breathes in and out.

Bob hands Brian the last protein bar. "It's the last one."

Brian tears the wrapper open and bites into the bar savagely.

Bob waits patiently for Brian to finish, and then he asks, "Ready?"

Brian doesn't look like he'll ever be ready. He looks wrecked: covered in sweat with a permanent pained expression and a faint sneer.

"Do you have more aspirin?" Brian asks.

Bob hands Brian the last of the aspirin and a water bottle.

Brian downs the aspirin with a swig of water and hands Bob back the bottle.

"Okay," Brian says resolutely.

~

  
They make it as far as an abandoned banana plantation before Brian needs to rest again. Brian sits on a downed banana tree. Bob is glad twofold. Bananas mean food, and they also mean lowlands. Lowlands means civilization, where Brian can find medical help. And the canopy is nonexistent so Bob finally has a GPS reading.

The GPS says they're in the middle of nowhere. Actually, the GPS spits out a bunch of numbers, which Bob needs to calibrate on a map, but it leads to the conclusion that they're in the middle of nowhere.

They are, however, also close to a river, which will lead them out of the middle of nowhere. Bob counts this as good news. The river runs parallel to a highway, where they can hitchhike to wherever they need to go for Brian to receive medical attention.

Bob gathers a batch of bananas that don't look too rotten – or eaten – and sits down next to Brain.

Brian eyes the bananas like he's holding back every dirty joke ever.

Bob rolls his eyes. "Just eat the damn thing. No one's asking you to fellate it." Bob waits a beat for Brian to grab a banana and peel it and raise it to his mouth before adding, "Which is too bad, because you need protein."

Brian chokes on nothing.

Bob raises his eyebrows.

"Asshole," Brian grumbles.

"You'll live," Bob says.

Brian eyes Bob warily as he eats his banana.

Bob feigns ignoring Brian as he eats his own banana. He's hungry. He gave his last protein bar to Brian hours ago. He also realizes that Brian needs to take longer and longer rests. Brian has realized no such thing, and in fact has resulted to giving Bob mildly put-out looks at Bob's dawdling. Either that or Brian's stupid as well as being a stubborn asshole.

"You're a stubborn asshole," Bob decides.

Brian raises his eyebrows. "That's not the first time you said that."

"I know," Bob says. He said it first when they were in their first week of grad school. As the only two students in their program, everything became a competition. And it still is. Bob supposes it was good practice.

"Are you still holding a grudge about that grant?" Brian asks, slightly intrigued, slightly aghast and accusatory.

"I worked my ass off for a year and a half," Bob says. "It sucked, and it sucked even more that that work didn't pay off."

Brain gives Bob an impassive look.

"But that hardly matters now," Bob concludes. It was years ago. Unfortunately, Brian's kept winning every prize he and Bob sought after. Egypt, Bangladesh, Scotland, Argentina, and so on. Bob's only taken Oman, Mexico, Peru, and Ireland.

Brian's impassive look turns thoughtful.

Bob let's Brian think and goes off in search of something that's not a banana to eat. He finds a cacao vine and hacks down a cacao pod to take back to Brian. He needs the serotonin rush.

Bob returns with the cacao and cuts it open for Brian to take pinches of the pithy flesh.

"You left," Brian says after he eats a few fingers full of cacao. His voice isn't strong, and Bob has no idea what Brian really means.

"I brought you chocolate," Bob says.

Brian hums in agreement, scooping out more cacao flesh.

"You left," Brian repeats. Maybe Brian is further gone with infection than Bob previously thought.

"I came back," Bob says, and then he repeats, "I brought you chocolate."

"Not now," Brian says crossly. "Grad school. You left."

"Well, yeah," Bob says. "You won the grant."

"That's not reason enough," Brian snorts, taking another pinch of cacao flesh.

Bob eyes Brian. He's not going to spill his heart here, but he supposes Brian might not even remember this conversation. His eyes are starting to glass over. They're going to need to move soon, before they're unable to do so.

Bob idly swats at the cloud of mosquitoes around their heads.

"Well?" Brian demands.

"There wasn't enough money for me to stay," Bob says. "That was the deal: you or me." It's always been "you or me" with Bob and Brian, which is one of the main reasons Bob kept his distance from Brian. Even though they keep meeting up in remote (and sometimes not so remote) archeological sites. And that one time Brian tried to sit in on one of Bob's classes. Bob kicked him out of the lecture hall.

"Oh," Brian says quietly. "I didn't want you to go."

Bob pointedly doesn't look at Brian and says, "It's time for both of us to go." He doesn't want to examine their dysfunctional whatever. He wants Brian – and himself – out of the jungle right now. And then, once Bob knows Brian is okay, he wants to put as much distance between them as possible.

Bob scratches at a mosquito bite on his neck (he's collected a lot of those) and helps Brian to his feet.

~

  
The sun is hanging low in the sky when Bob and Brian come to a path. It's the first path they've come across. It's wide enough for a horse trail, and it's gravel. They follow it readily.

Brian fares better on the more even terrain – where he doesn't trip over tree roots and stones. However, he's – Bob's pretty sure the infection and the heat of the jungle have given Brain a high fever. Brian's kinda out of it. Really out of it. When he speaks, it's slurred if even that coherent. Brian needs medical treatment days ago. Brian leans heavily on Bob for support; Bob's sure that if he loosens his hold on Brian even a little bit, Brian would succumb to gravity.

The horse trail opens up to a bridge over the river Bob has been searching for. The only problem. The big only problem. It's a suspended bridge. And the river is fifty feet below them.

Bob looks down. He immediately regrets it, and pulls himself backward with enough force to overbalance Brian, who mutters something that's probably a curse on Bob's lineage. Bob manages to rearrange his grip on Brian before he actually topples over. Which would probably worsen his damaged leg. Which is not what Brian needs at the moment.

Damn vertigo.

Bob has a thing about heights. The thing is he doesn't do them. At all. When he flies, he always sits away from the windows. He doesn't climb scaffolding. He doesn't even fucking climb ladders. Bob and heights do not mix.

Except the only way to help Brian is on the other side of that bridge. And Brain _really_ needs help.

Bob takes a deep breath and puts a foot out on the bridge. It sways slightly.

Bob swallows hard and slowly edges his way across the bridge with Brian. Bob clings to the rope railing as much as possible without increasing the sway. Balancing the weight of both of them is difficult, but it gives Bob something to focus on other than the fact that the river below them is running swiftly… and after the rapids are done breaking apart their bodies, the crocs will eat the rest.

Bob thinks back to balancing their weight. He doesn't focus on how the bridge sways at the slightest provocation. He's just happy that it's a well maintained bridge. Which means they're really fucking close people. And that it won't give out and feed their bodies to the crocodiles.

Bob releases a sharp breath when he and Brian set foot on solid ground.

~

  
They come across a town a mile later. Brian and Bob are immediately whisked away to a city – and a hospital. Once Brian is taken into the OR, Bob releases a sigh. It's fatigue and finality all wrapped up in one sigh.

Then Bob convinces a nurse to let him take a shower, which is the best thing ever! Hot showers rank up there with orgasms. Of course it didn't take much convincing. Bob is rank.

Bob locates Brian again after his shower. Bob's run out of clean clothing, so he liberates a pair of scrubs. No one will miss them.

Brian emerges from the OR an hour later. He's wheeled into a room on a stretcher, and Bob corners the doctor.

"Is he going to be all right?" Bob asks in Spanish.

"Yes," the doctor answers in English. Bob doesn't think his Spanish is that horrible. It has served him well over the years. Maybe she knows he's American. It is probably his accent. "We needed to break his leg again to properly set it. He's also on broad spectrum antibiotics. Is he on any medication?"

Bob shakes his head. He has no idea. They didn't exactly talk about that.

"He will be fine," she says. She pats him on the arm and heads off.

~

  
Bob checks on Brian to make sure he really is okay. It's not that he doubts the doctor. She seems to know what she's doing and be really good at it. It's just. Bob needs to see it with his eyes. He spent the last three days saving his rival. Well, saving Brian. Bob wants to make it real for himself.

Brian is pale. And unconscious. And really damn pale. But he's no longer sweating bullets, and his leg is in a proper cast. Brian's hooked up to an IV, and Bob tries unsuccessfully not to follow the tubing down to the needle in Brian's arm.

Brian's chest is steadily rising and falling, and that's all Bob needs to affirm everything.

He's on the next flight out of Guatemala City.

~

  
Bob is somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico when he realizes that Brian still has the Mayan head.

~

  
Bob hovers awkwardly over the desk of Greta's secretary, who isn't there. Greta's expecting him, and Bob is kinda glad her secretary isn't present to witness the carnage.

The door to Greta's office creaks open, and she beckons him inside.

Bob gingerly sits down in the chair across her desk as Greta sits down in her chair.

"You don't have the head," Greta states, giving Bob a critical look.

"No," Bob says, even though it isn't a question. "Schechter does."

Greta leans back in her chair. "I see." Her voice is tight. She's disappointed, not that Bob expected her to be anything but. It's not the first time Bob's said those words to Greta, but hopefully it'll be the last time.

"It's a bit more complicated," Bob explains. "Brian broke his leg."

Greta examines Bob closely. "_Brian_ broke his leg?" she repeats. This time it is a question, but it's not a question about whether or not Brian broke his leg. It's about Bob addressing Brian as Brian.

"I couldn't leave him to die," Bob says firmly.

"I understand," Greta says, and she totally does, which is why Greta is such an awesome boss. But she's still disappointed. Not that Bob blames her. Bob brings a lot of attention and students to Greta's university (read: money), but he's always played second best to Brian.

After a long pause, Bob says, "I think that was my last field assignment."

Greta nods. "The university will be unhappy with that."

Bob shrugs. He doesn't give a fuck what some stuffy suits have to say about Bob's decisions. The last one took a lot out of Bob emotionally, and. Well. Physically, too.

"I'm still going to teach in the fall," Bob says.

Greta nods. "Good. I'd hate to see you retire so young. It's a waste of coed swooning."

Bob's mouth sets in a tight line. He always feels uncomfortable when Greta brings up that Bob's archeology courses are the first ones filled.

Greta smiles sweetly, and Bob can do nothing but let the comment slide.

~ 3 months later ~

  
Bob hates black-tie parties. He will beg out of them if possible, but this one is in his honor, which makes it even worse, because people will be paying attention to him instead of just attempting small talk. He has papers to grade… and the worst part is that Brian is in attendance as well.

These types of parties are all the same. Everyone wants Bob to tell them about his latest field excursion. And Bob doesn't think of his field assignments as romantic or exciting. They're dangerous, and Brian almost died on the last one. Bob didn't want to think about it at the time, but yeah, Brian almost died. It could have easily have been Bob, not that Bob is that selfish.

Bob hangs in the shadows, attempting to avoid everyone. Greta had told – ordered him to mingle, but Bob can't bring himself to do it. He doesn't know anyone personally other than Brian. And just. No.

"Hey."

Bob nearly jumps out of his skin.

Brian raises his eyebrows and hands Bob a flute of champagne.

"It's your party, and you're hiding," Brian states. "Something about that sounds familiar." It sounds like every party Bob's ever attended from grad school on.

"What do you want?" Bob asks. He's bit terser than he should be, but. He doesn't even know why. The entire situation is beyond uncomfortable, and Bob doesn't know why.

"I heard you're retiring from field work," Brian says.

Oh. That's what this is about.

"Yeah," Bob says.

"I never got to thank you," Brian says softly, not looking Bob directly in the eye. "Thank you, though."

"You're welcome," Bob says thickly. His throat is closing up on him, and he doesn't want to think about _that_.

"I mean it, Bob," Brian says. He looks up at Bob, and his eyes are so fucking clear it's disgusting. "Thank you."

Brian's too close, and Bob is acutely aware of things he should not be aware of. Like Brian's mouth. He can't even bring himself to focus on Brian's ridiculous tattoos. Which is what has helped Bob refocus in the past… decade or so.

Bob knows he's fucked before Brian takes away the champagne he just gave Bob. Then Brian is touching Bob, and it's doing things to him. And Bob doesn't know how much is gratitude for saving Brian and how much is residual from graduate school. Bob had to leave before something like this started.

But Brian drags him outside. The autumn air bites at Bob's skin, but then Brian's hand curls around Bob's neck, and Brian's lips tug at Bob's bottom lip, followed by a slight scrape of teeth, just enough for Bob to open his mouth. Brian takes full advantage of it.

Brian kisses exactly how Bob imaged he would: assertive with liberal use of teeth. And Bob is not ashamed to say that he imaged it a lot in graduate school. Not so much after they became rivals. But.

Greta finds them just as Brian's other hand finds Bob's belt.

"Bob," she says, and Bob doesn't jump. He's proud of himself for that. "You need to accept your award and make a speech."

"Shit," Bob says vehemently.

Brian, the asshole, laughs. "Go accept your award."

"You and I are going to have words, Schechter," Greta says sternly.

"Sure," Brian says. He doesn't seem too upset by it. "Both you and Bob know where to find me. Although, I hope they're for different reasons." He winks at Greta and heads inside.

Bob tries not to blush, and it's not as difficult as he thinks. Not as he notices Brian's subtle limp. He doesn't need Brian to confirm it; Bob knows Brian's out of the field now, too.

"Bob," Greta says fondly. "God. Now I have to make you presentable. Couldn't you have made out _after_ you accepted your award?"

Bob doesn't comment. He allows Greta to fix his hair, and then they go inside for Bob to make his speech, which isn't much of a speech. It's on a cocktail napkin in his pocket. Bob adds it to the list of things Greta will yell at him for.

Brian watches Bob from the back of the room. It's kinda of nice to know that Greta's not the only one supporting him and his decision to stop field work.

Bob steps up to the podium and unfolds the cocktail napkin. Greta's already scowling at it, and Brian. Brian looks on proudly. Bob's a bit disgusted with himself, but he can overcome their now nonexistent rivalry enough to be happy that Brian sees him how Bob had always wanted him to. This is how it should have been, and Bob is going to try damn hard to keep it that way.

  
End!


End file.
